


Another Crazy Day

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story was written for this kinkmeme prompt:<br/>I cannot get out of my head the mental image of John, in the kitchen at 221B, singing and bopping along to Gerry Rafferty's "Baker Street" complete with vocalising the sax part. Sherlock watches from the doorway, trying to hold in his laughter because John might stop if he knew someone else was there. When John uses a wooden spoon as a mic (or saxophone) however, even Sherlock's self control gives out. John stops, looking shy and somewhat foolish and self-conscious. So Sherlock steps into the kitchen and snogs him senseless. (Maybe this surprises him as much as it does John?) Surprised or not, John is quite happy to respond enthusiastically. (And maybe then there is sex?)</p><p>First time preferred, but established relationship is fine. Bonus if John knew Sherlock was there all along and was playing up to his audience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Crazy Day

Some days were bad. The days when there were no cases and Sherlock was going spare with boredom, and John was going spare trying to stop a bored Sherlock from destroying the flat, or himself, or John.

Some days were brilliant. Days when the case was fascinating, involving chases and maybe punching villains, or John knew a bit of necessary pop culture or medicine that Sherlock didn’t, or at least he wasn’t completely useless when Sherlock challenged him to deduce things from the crime scene, and Sherlock was positively scintillating, and it didn’t matter that he pissed people off with his manner because he was sharp and inspired and right and just fucking _glorious_.

And there were the days like these. They would start innocuously enough. Soothing, pleasant even. A mildly diverting case solved over a cup of tea and a biscuit, followed by a little domestic harmony for a change. But days like these were a little crazy, because the harmony never lasted for long and John was always a little wary, a little anticipatory, wondering what was going to change the day into less-than-placid. It might be Mycroft dropping by to have a ridiculous fight with Sherlock; or Sherlock getting into his head to play the violin for **_fourteen hours straight_** without seeming to play two consecutive notes that could be called a melody; or a quietly festering experiment exploding wetly in the cupboard.

This morning, it was actually an ex-patient of John’s, showing up drunk at 10am to hurl abuse at the doctor from the street, on the logic that John had _ruined his life,_ perversely by saving it in a desert firefight. Sherlock had helpfully bellowed down to the deluded man that apart from the obvious facts that he was now a bored computer technician, had a pet dog that didn’t actually like him very much and that his wife had ceased to love him, it was clearly his _repressed sexuality_ that was ruining his life, and if could just for _one minute_ accept the twin facts that a) he was _gay_ and b) his love for the doctor who saved his life would _never be requited_ , he could probably go on to live a fruitful life or at least a life that was _not anywhere near Baker Street_ , that would be _fine_ , thank you, _goodbye_.

John had leaned against the wall, twitching the curtain aside to watch the crushed young man leaving the street, and sighed.

“Bit harsh, weren’t you?”

“He was a pest. He was _pestering_ you, John. He’s been down there on and off all week. He finally got himself drunk enough, early enough to actually make a nuisance of himself.”

“Yeah, still…”

“Flattered were you?” asked Sherlock waspishly, “By all that unrequited _love_.”

John leaned back against the wall, a laugh puffing out of him. “It’s not the first time,” he said, “Crushes happen, especially out there. Things get intense in a war zone. Some of the lads get a bit starry eyed at someone who’s managed to stitch all their parts back together.”

“Is that what you did for him? Stitch… his _parts_ together?”

John sobered. “Yeah. Saved his leg, his liver and most of his ear. His patrol was hit by a roadside bomb. He got out of it okay. Everything in one piece, eventually. Took some doing. One of his mates lost an arm. Can’t save everyone, I guess.”

“Do you remember _all_ of them?” asked Sherlock acidly, then his expression softened at the look on John’s face that seemed to say _Yes. Yes I do._

“He could just send flowers, if he’s grateful.” Scowling, Sherlock went back to reading his forensics journal.

John regarded Sherlock thoughtfully, lower lip thrust out in a pout of concentration.

“Don’t pull that face, John.”

John wiped his hand over his mouth, physically erasing the pouty lip, and went shopping.

He came home to find the flat empty. Maybe this morning’s visitor would be as much Crazy Day as he’d get today. Maybe the rest of it would be that harmonious domesticity which could be such a welcome respite from the bad days and even the brilliant ones.

So John, in his tidy, military way, set the main room and the kitchen to rights, as far as possible. A soldier and a surgeon both need to know where their tools are when the bloodbath starts, and while London wasn’t Afghanistan, it was, from time to time, a war zone, and 221B was on occasion a rather startling battlefield. John preferred a certain level of order. He never knew when it might save a life.

John replenished the first aid kit from his shopping foray and filled the cupboard with groceries; he replaced cutlery in drawers, after first cleaning them thoroughly; he sharpened the cutting knives; he put the poker upright by the fireplace; he folded blankets to drape over the back of his chair and the sofa, rather than leaving them to be tripped over in the semi-dark the next time John came down to breakfast to find some half-baked assailant trying to throttle Sherlock with a shoelace (and hadn’t that been a fun Crazy Day).

John wondered if Sherlock realised that John’s tidiness had more to do with battle readiness than obsession with housework, then thought he probably did but thought it would be beyond tedious to do something as mundane as, for example, _thank_ John.

Never mind. It’s what he did. Sherlock was a genius and hyperactive (when he wasn’t lethargic) and rarely predictable; John was methodical and centred and occasionally stunningly violent. Seemed to work for them.

In pursuit of soothing domesticity, then, John pulled a stack of ingredients out of the cupboard and the fridge (avoiding the gruesome bowl of… oh, no, hang on, that was just last week’s leftovers that would constitute an experiment if anyone had actually left it there to grow green bits _on purpose_ ).

Ingredients and implements for the construction of spaghetti bolognaise were laid out on the table in a tidy manner that would be familiar to most surgery prep nurses. John flicked on the radio and began to make dinner.

He was in quite a mellow mood by the time he slopped in two tins of peeled tomatoes and a whole bunch of torn basil. He wasn’t much of a cook, but bolognaise was simple, it contained wine and it tasted better the longer it sat and was therefore excellent for leftovers.

John was in such a mellow mood, in fact, that he was humming – and, to be completely accurate, also jigging – along with the songs. A little shuffle of the feet here, a little thrust of the hip there, head nodding along cheerfully with the rhythm.

It had been a long time since John had been dancing. Not since that ridiculous Crazy Day, Afghani-style, with nothing to do in the dry heat but wait for orders or an emergency. Someone had plugged their iPod into a speaker and an impromptu disco began. The men-to-women ratio was not really up to the task, so John had danced with that laughing young Lance Corporal. After concluding he might best defeat the enemy by dancing with them and crushing their toes, John had taught the boy how to waltz and then to salsa. John very much hoped Lance Corporal Jefferson had survived to get home and impress his sweetheart with his new skills.

Pouring pasta shells into boiling water, John heard an old favourite come on the radio. With a grin, he turned the volume up as high as it would go. He stepped back to the hob with a sliding sideways move and an elegant lift of both elbows, hands aloft with a graceful curl, like Fred Astaire about to slip into a foxtrot. He feistily grabbed the wooden spoon, stirred the bolognaise sauce three times, glided back and executed a tight whirl on his heel before striking a pose and starting to sing.

_Windin' your way down on Baker Street  
Light in your head and dead on your feet_

His hips rocked one way then another, and he flung a tea towel over his shoulder with a flourish.

_Well another crazy day  
You'll drink the night away  
And forget about everything_

He raised his arms in a sort of ‘look at my wicked moves’ hold, cocked his head to one side and put on his very best Soulful Song Face while he poured his heart into the lyrics.

_This city desert makes you feel so cold.  
It's got so many people but it's got no soul_

If he heard the door downstairs open and shut, John gave no indication. He may have been too busy stirring the pot sensually with the spoon in his right hand while he jogged his left hip suggestively in the direction of the fridge.

_And it's taking you so long  
To find out you were wrong  
When you thought it had everything_

Oh, and he liked this bit, so he waggled his arse one way and his torso the other and tucked his elbows in and closed his eyes and _crooooned._

_You used to think that it was so easy  
You used to say that it was so easy  
But you're tryin'  
You're tryin' now_

And if John was in the slightest bit aware that a tall, dark shape had secreted itself outside the open kitchen door, the better to watch these shenanigans, he gave no indication, preferring instead to jut his arse out then pull his hips to the side and then forward in a deliberate rolling movement that suggested he had carnal intentions towards the boiling pasta.

_Another year and then you'll be happy  
Just one more year and then you'll be happy  
But you're cryin'  
You're cryin' now_

Then it was the sax solo, and John dragged the wooden spoon out of the sauce and held it to his lips as he did the most supremely awesome Air Sax Solo that it has ever been London’s privilege to miss. It’s quite possible he was impersonating the sax with _di-da-da-woo-oo-ooo_ too loudly now to hear the stifled snicker from the hall. His hips were still doing that magnificent rolling thing. Elvis would have been proud.

He was just dipping the wooden spoon back in the sauce, doing a neat bending thing at the knee which meant he could grind his hips a little lower and shimmy up next to the hob as the next verse started, but when he opened his mouth a baritone voice behind him took up the melody.

_Way down the street there's a lad in his place  
He opens the door he's got that look on his face_

And John started so violently that he very nearly brought the whole pot of sauce down on top of himself. He certainly managed to somehow flick a large wooden spoonful of sauce violently across the room, spattering his cheek with tomato and basil and making the toaster look like it had been used as a blunt instrument in a brutal attack.

John whirled, mortified, to find Sherlock Holmes leaning against the kitchen door and giggling.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock managed between snorts of laughter at the stricken look on John’s face, “That’s very probably the best thing I’ve seen all week.”

Which could be taken in a multitude of ways, but John was mostly staring open-mouthed, as though ready to offer a perfectly reasonable explanation, if only he could think of one.

Becoming aware he was looking like a flytrap, John snapped his mouth shut (Sherlock giggling all the while) and then opened his mouth again to say: “I nearly scalded myself on a pot of _sauce,_ Sherlock!”

For some reason, this only made Sherlock laugh harder. John shut his mouth again, wondering why it had sounded like a line from a Carry On film even to his own ears.  Then he scowled and rubbed the back of his hand against his sauce-splattered cheek. “Oh, for …”

“Here, let me,” offered Sherlock gallantly. He crossed the room in two strides, sidestepping the table, whipped the tea towel off John’s shoulder and then…

… didn’t do anything but _stare_. Standing too close. Thinking about those Elvis hip movements and the way John closed his eyes while he played Air Sax with utter commitment.

And John was staring back, pasta sauce smearing his face like warpaint. Mouth parted slightly, that quick tongue darting out to moisten his lower lip, he met Sherlock’s bright, considering gaze and did not flinch.

And from the radio, Gerry Rafferty was singing.

_But you know he'll always keep movin'  
You know he's never gonna stop movin  
Cus he's rollin'  
He's the rollin' stone _

The thing about John Watson was that he was only _mostly_ ordinary. It was the percentages between the ‘mostly’ and the rest of him which gave him such texture, and made him not really ordinary at all. For example, John was only mostly patient and mostly calm. He was only mostly warm-hearted and mostly humane. The percentages for which he was impatient, wild, hard-headed and calculating were, in contrast, intense, and had kept the two of them alive on the streets of London for over a year.

John was also only mostly straight, and the degrees that topped him up with being queer could be very intensely so. That percentage had twinged that first dinner with Sherlock, but John had ruthlessly quelled the reaction. _This man is not interested and never will be. Let it go. That way, madness lies._

But declaring his mostly straightness to all and sundry, when all they could detect was the percentage of _not-straight_ that was hurtling into madness, hadn’t been a help. Hell, he spent the majority of his life nowadays nurturing and enjoying the zone that occupied the space after ‘mostly’ in every other aspect of his person. Of course ‘mostly straight’ didn’t stand a chance.

Intriguingly, John had only _mostly_ resigned himself to never receiving any kind of reciprocal response from Sherlock.

And today, being a Crazy Day, ‘mostly’ stood not a snowball’s chance in hell. Not for John or, for that matter, Sherlock.

Sherlock, in fact, was distracted by the zone beyond ‘mostly’ himself. _Mostly not interested in sex or relationships. Mostly irritated by the dimness of the general populace. Mostly happy to be alone. Mostly determined to crush this unexpected attraction to his friend._

Mostly.

The percentage beyond ‘mostly’ suddenly took over Sherlock’s brain. He did something considerably outside the ordinary. Maybe for no more reason than a lovestruck soldier had highlighted the attractiveness of his flatmate, and said flatmate seemed to actually quite like the idea that sometimes men had crushes on him, and well, John did dance like there was nobody watching, and that had been both hilarious and charming, and… stimulating.

And maybe it was because of a lot of other reasons that had nothing to do with today at all, but were related to John’s earlier thoughtful pout and Sherlock’s irrational enjoyment of having John nearby. Unshared. His flatmate, his colleague, his partner, his friend. _His_.

On this Crazy Day, what Sherlock did was, he bent down and licked a stripe of pasta sauce from John’s cheek.

They both froze. Stared even more ardently. Panted a little. Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment. Seemed about to step away. And that’s when John, blue eyes wide and vivid, flung the wooden spoon somewhere out of sight, grabbed Sherlock’s right lapel in one hand and his left hip with the other and dragged him close. All the while, moving those Elvis hips.

 _And when you wake up it's a new mornin'  
The sun is shinin' it's a new morning  
You're goin'  
You're goin' home_.

The next sax solo started, but this time John was shifting his hips to dance with Sherlock, bending slightly at the knee, rolling that hip and his shoulders, shimmying up Sherlock’s legs and torso as though he were a hob laden with pasta sauce. And John did not close his eyes, not once.

Sherlock… dipped. Swayed. Slid a hand around John’s waist, the other remaining loose at his own side, and being taller, fitted his hips just above John’s and shimmied right back.

Forget Elvis. This was _Dirty Dancing_ , even though Sherlock had never seen it.

The keening guitar solo was an automatic invitation for John’s hand to leave Sherlock’s lapel and curve under the suit jacket, around Sherlock’s ribs, palm resting on his back and pulling him closer. The hand on Sherlock’s hip stroked down towards the thigh, and up, and Sherlock raised his own loose hand to wind it around John’s shoulders, fingers curling at the back of John’s neck, brushing the skin there.

He stooped slightly to kiss John’s brow, just above the eyelid, a gentle lick and suck, demolishing a red spot of sauce and John sighed and pressed against Sherlock’s chest. Leaned in to kiss Sherlock’s chin, below his ear, and to flick his tongue delicately against Sherlock’s earlobe.

Some new song had begun, but they were still moving to the sensuous wail of _Baker Street_.

Sherlock’s mouth moved from eyebrow to cheek to chin and John tilted his head to, _oh yes,_ allow a kiss against the carotid, the tip of a tongue tracing the artery upwards…

Another tilt and their mouths met, John’s lips pressed upward against Sherlock’s, the tip of Sherlock’s tongue against the tip of John’s, tasting of tomato and basil and aftershave.

Their mouths took up the roll and press and shift that their hips had momentarily left off, their lower regions now just pressed hard against each other, assisted in the attempt to occupy the same space by hands on each other’s arses.  Then the dance moved back down, colonising their bodies entire. Mouths dipping and sucking and pressing, and hands sliding and squeezing, and hips rocking and…

“Normal people,” said Sherlock, a little breathlessly, against John’s mouth, “Go on dates… I believe. And… _oh_.” Who knew a mouth could be soft yet demanding; or that having John nuzzle against his throat could be quite so erotic? “Court. Over… _ah…_ a period of t-t-time.” Fascinating, that a strong, capable hand rubbed over his thigh, still clad in increasingly bothersome tailored wool, could reduce his speech centres to a stammer. “B-before… sex.”

“Normal people,” said John, firmly, “Are boring.”

Sherlock demonstrated his general agreement with this sentiment by sliding his hands into John’s pants to grab John’s arse. It was a snug fit, which suited Sherlock just fine as he pulled John closer. John rewarded Sherlock’s initiative by tugging Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers and rubbing one hand up, underneath the shirt, and over the detective’s unseen left nipple. His right hand was wrapped around Sherlock’s narrow waist and pressing their bodies insistently together.

“Besides,” said John, deciding a better use of both his hands was to undo Sherlock’s belt buckle, “We’ve been on loads of dates.”

“They weren’t… y-you said…” Sherlock reluctantly removed one hand from John’s excellent arse to unbutton John’s shirt, though he got distracted along the way and simply held John’s face with his fingers steepled against John’s chin and cheek and kissed him as though he was a particularly new and particularly exciting experiment. John reacted a little like a volatile chemical, all enthusiasm and heat, and slid a hand down the front of Sherlock’s pants.

Sherlock to his own great surprise gave an undignified, keening mewl and involuntarily pushed his crotch against those warm and capable fingers.

“Sure they were. Two people who like each other going out and having fun, like you said.” John breathed into Sherlock’s mouth, curling his fingers around Sherlock’s obvious interest. Sherlock’s hips leaned into him.

“You s-said…”

“I am, as you like to point out,” said John, “An idiot.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and pushed into that hand again. “Not an idiot,” he amended. He regained co-ordination long enough to unfasten John’s jeans and slide his hand inside the front of them, “Genius. You. _Oh. God_. Genius.”

“ _God._ _Oh._ Wait. _Ahh._ Sherlock…” John wriggled away long enough to twist and turn off the flame under the pasta. (The sauce could simmer for some hours yet: not unlike sexual attraction, which could in fact simmer for months and just grow richer and fuller and better savoured when finally tasted.)

While John was thus turned, Sherlock bent low over John’s now bare chest and slid the flat of his tongue over John’s left pectoral muscle. Over the nipple and towards the puckered scar higher on his chest. John held his breath, held still, while the tongue continued over the thickened skin and onward, upward, to his throat, his earlobe, the curl of his ear, lipped as though a delicate morsel.

“I want to taste every part of you,” whispered Sherlock, a barely voiced breath in John’s ear.

John’s smile was dazed and a little mischievous. “Plenty of sauce on the stove if you need to use some more.”

Sherlock’s reply was to capture John’s mouth and run his tongue along the inside edge of his bottom lip. John clutched at Sherlock’s hand inside his pants and ground against it.

“Seems like,” murmured Sherlock, his smile ghosting against John’s throat, “You find visits from unrequited lovers somewhat stimulating.”

“Seems like,” gasped John, shifting his own grip inside Sherlock’s pants, “I also find you being in a jealous snit about that kind of stimulating as well. Oh for... let’s talk later. Now I want to…”  Finding words inadequate, John pushed Sherlock’s trousers and pants down, reluctantly disentangled himself from Sherlock’s own hand, and sank to his knees, kissing a trail from Sherlock’s sternum, over his belly, detouring via narrow hips and soft, sensitive skin at the top of his thighs, to arrive triumphantly at Sherlock’s impressive erection.

Being a man of action, John simply spent a brief moment sizing up the challenge and then slid his mouth over the head of Sherlock’s cock. He slowly, carefully, swallowed as much of it as he could. He swirled his tongue around the shaft and continued to swirl as he withdrew until he was drawing lazy circles with the tip of his tongue around the crown.

The noises Sherlock was making were thoroughly gratifying. John grinned up at him, at Sherlock all wobbly-kneed, his eyes closed, head thrown back, still making that breathy moan. He licked a stripe along the underside of Sherlock’s cock just to make him do that more loudly, and was rewarded handsomely.  He lipped the head of that lovely prick just for his own enjoyment then, tasting pre-cum. Swallowed Sherlock down again, crown and shaft,  sucking firmly to force a change of pitch in that gorgeous moan.

“John…” Sherlock’s hands curved under John’s arms to lift him for a deep, desperate kiss, “Bed.”

A man does not survive medical school, the army or being Sherlock Holmes’s friend and colleague without learning to think fast on his feet. In the few seconds it took Sherlock to kick off his shoes, trousers and pants entirely, John scooped up the bottle of Extra Virgin olive oil (he’d laugh himself silly about that later, when he realised) from the table and they manoeuvred, still kissing and rubbing and, _oh god!,_ through the kitchen, down the hall and in to Sherlock’s room, because it was nearest.

Sherlock got rid of his coat and shirt so fast it was like they had mysteriously melted away. He was very insistent on John being naked right about then, and clothes were dispatched with such speed and urgency that John would have been dizzy, if it weren’t for the fact that he was so totally focused on other things. He kept leaning in to lick and suck at Sherlock’s exposed nipples and was hardly aware of Sherlock tugging off his clothing, although he let his limbs be manipulated easily for that purpose. Why fight the desired, delectable inevitable?

John had to leave off his brand new favourite pastime to kick off his shoes, but then he was back to it with a will, hands clasped around Sherlock’s lovely arse, flexing his hips so that their hard pricks were pressed together, released, pressed, released, in a manner that had Sherlock whining impatiently. Sherlock slid his longer arms around John’s body to seize his hips and grind them together more purposefully.

John pushed with his hips, thighs and hands against Sherlock’s body and Sherlock gave way, falling gracefully onto the bed. John crawled up after him, straddling his thighs, capturing the taller man underneath him.

“We sure this is a good idea?” he asked, rather belatedly.

“It’s an excellent idea, John. The best idea we’ve had all day. All week. All year. Don’t tell me you didn’t know I was watching you in there. That performance was for my benefit.”

“ _Our_ benefit,” John agreed. He bent to kiss Sherlock: his mouth, his jaw, his cheek, his temple, and then traced the line back to Sherlock’s throat, charting the course with his tongue. He suckled on the pale skin, feeling the pulse fluttering underneath him.

John thrust his hips forward experimentally and was nearly unseated by the strength with which Sherlock bucked back.

“Dear Christ, you are something,” John breathed, sitting up. He took up the bottle of oil from where he’d left it on the end of the bed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“This was kind of spontaneous,” John explained, pouring a pool of liquid into his palm, “I’d already done the shopping. I don’t have lube. Or condoms. It’s going to make a mess of the sheets, though.”

“Do I look like I give a damn about the sheets?”

“No,” John lowered his hand and tilted the palm, so that the oil spilled over his and Sherlock’s wantonly alert bodies, “You really don’t.”

Oil trickled between them, gilding them. Not that either was interested in the visual effects, because the physical ones were what counted now. John balanced on his knees, hands gripping Sherlock’s thighs, and with a little moan of pleasure, he lined up his erection with Sherlock’s and thrust. Hardness slicked against hardness, hypersensitive skin zinged at the friction that wasn’t yet enough. John shifted his angle and thrust again, angling downward, applying more pressure, while Sherlock pushed up, and that was better, but still not enough.

Sherlock’s next genius idea was to wrap one of his large hands around both their cocks and slide it up, down, up, down, squeezing gently. John pushed into the fist, breath stuttering and the sensation of fingers, palm, Sherlock’s prick, his own, sliding, _oh god._ _That_ was what they needed.

His own smaller oil-slicked hands he put to excellent use, rubbing them over Sherlock’s chest, sliding his thumbs over Sherlock’s nipples, a gentle tweak, a firm rub, Sherlock bucking more eagerly underneath him as he ground his hips. Then Sherlock’s free hand was cupping John’s face, thumb pressing against his lower lip. John sucked the thumb into his mouth, swirled his tongue over and along and around it, that thumb a microcosm of Sherlock’s cock, _oh, god, yes._ He bit down gently on the pad of it, his intent gaze fixed on Sherlock’s pale eyes, staring back all glazed with need and pleasure and _approval._

Nothing for it, then, but for John to lean down, hips rocking, to claim Sherlock’s mouth with a hot, sloppy, sensuous kiss, to claim lips and tongue and breath with his own and _approve back_ so damned hard with his heart and body that there was no doubt, no doubt at all, that this was indeed the best idea either of them had ever had in the history of history.

Sherlock’s arm was wrapped around John’s waist now, holding him firm, steady, as they pushed together, slick and hot and slippery and perfect. Sounds that had been inarticulate before were somehow morphing into names and affirmations and _oh god yes_ , _there_ and _please_ and _harder._

And then language dissolved again into two wordless moans, growing into shouts, and their bodies shook and heaved against each other as the orgasms hit, so close on one another that even Sherlock couldn’t deduce who’d come first and tipped them both into profound, _oh most **excellent**_ release.

Not that Sherlock was caring much. John had collapsed across his body, panting, and Sherlock, gasping for breath, had wrapped both arms around his soldier, his doctor, _his_ , to hold the heavy, welcome weight against him. John, for his part, was nuzzling Sherlock’s chest contentedly, kissing pale, muscular skin in between breaths. He sounded like he was laughing, but before this response could puzzle Sherlock, John looked up at him with that dazzling, happy smile he unleashed from time to time and said: “Brilliant idea, this. Brilliant. You’re a genius.”

Sherlock, smiling, ran his fingers into John’s short hair. “Yes, I am, rather.” John settled against his chest again and then, after a dozen more kisses against Sherlock’s chest, sternum, collarbone, throat, he slid gracelessly to one side and wrapped himself around Sherlock’s torso, their legs tangled together.

“You are,” Sherlock conceded, “Somewhat amazing yourself.”

“Yes,” John responded agreeably.

“Good thinking,” Sherlock elucidated, “About the oil.”

“I’m always handy in a crisis,” said John with a smirk.

“This… was a crisis?”

“No, idiot. Seducing my flatmate and suddenly realising I didn’t have any lube on the premises was a crisis. This is the very satisfactory resolution of that crisis.”

“Ah. Yes. Indeed.”

“You can stop suggesting my ex-crushes send flowers, by the way,” continued John sleepily, “If I need flowers, you can get me some.”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed docilely. His arms were wrapped around John and he felt sluggish and drowsy and content in a way that he almost never did. Sherlock buried his nose in John’s hair and thought how strange it was that another human being could fit so well against his side. He’d always been so angular and sharp, physically and mentally. Nothing and no-one had ever fit with him. But this man tucked into all the angles and softened his edges just enough, and he fit without changing either of them. Two jigsaw pieces, he supposed, must keep their shape in order to click correctly.

“Stop thinking,” murmured John, his hand drawing lazy circles on Sherlock’s belly.

And, for a wonder, Sherlock did, and they fell asleep.

For the record, when they finally got around to having the bolognaise in the late, late evening, it, too, was worth the wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, ladies and gents, to my first ever properly porny bit of fanfic. I don't normally write explicit sex, but I decided as a personal challenge that I should discover if I could. Still not certain.


End file.
